The Courage of Living
by ElijahMunro
Summary: 1943-1945. What a time that was, I think. The best of times but the absolute worst as well; the time when I was still innocent, blissfully unaware that even the people you love can be crueler than your wildest imaginings. I open the journal, see pages upon pages of black scrawl that contain the beginnings of our story, the only story that I knew word for word. ECLARE AU.
1. Prologue: Ritual Union

The Courage of Living

Prologue: Ritual Union

_Toronto, Ontario 1995_

The day is wearing on my bones, though the sun has just risen. I see only glimpses of it from my open window but its rays are soft with the morning's cloud cover and the air is cool.

I lay in bed, the insistent sounds of my alarm clock muffled by the pillow pressed against my face.

I slam my hand against the snooze button but I know that I am only putting off the events of the day and not preventing them from happening altogether. I realize that it is futile to do so. The day will come whether I participate in it or not. Yet that little action makes me feel as if I have some semblance of control when everything else is chaotic.

Thinking about the upcoming day I curl my legs up against my chest, reaching across the bed to the cool, unoccupied side and plucking the pillow there from its usual place beside mine.

Pulling the pillow into my chest, I close my eyes and bury my face in it, breathing in the familiar smell of musk and spice and ink. It has not faded though its user has been gone for quite a while.

_He always was an early riser,_ I recall, e_ven when we were young. He was the first one at school in the morning, books in hand and ink smeared on his fingers._

His smell has always reminded me of the sweetness of old books, and I see how fitting it is that he would smell like what he loved most in the world but for his family.

_It's no coincidence he smells like books, Clare,_ I chide myself. _He's spent his whole life with a book never leaving his side for more than the time it takes to bathe._

_Bathe and make love,_ I amend myself, blushing to my hairline, _but even then the book is on his bedside table just waiting to be picked up again._

Casting my eyes to the end of the bed, I notice that very thing on the cherry wood nightstand. This time it is _To Kill a Mockingbird_ by Harper Lee, one of his personal favourites and a staple in his collection.

I still remember the very day it came out, almost thirty five years ago to the day. He had been thirty four and I thirty three, and we had been married for almost twelve years. I had been seven months pregnant with our fourth child, and the baby had been causing my back to ache all day.

_I was at the counter chopping vegetables when his car pulled into the driveway. Seeing the car, I dropped the knife I had been using and placed it on the counter top, walked towards the door to greet him with a heated argument as to why I should have more help with things around the house when I was in a condition such as mine, and I was certainly more than ready to let it loose on him. My feet were swollen and my head was pounding, and I wanted to unleash my anger on my husband who had helped make the baby._

_However, my rapidly growing ball of fury evaporated entirely when I saw the radiant smile on his face as he ran up the front walk and through the front door._

He's just so beautiful,_ I thought. _No matter what mood I'm in or how bad things have been going that day, my day is always better with him than without him.

_He hadn't even taken his coat off before he was striding across the room, taking me into his arms and kissing me senseless._

_He pulled away so that we could catch our breath, resting his forehead against mine, and I raised my hand to the day's worth of stubble that had arisen on his jaw. The black numbers inked there taunted me, reminding me of a past that I tried so hard to forget. I knew that if I looked on my husband's wrist I would find a similar tattoo with a number only one digit apart._

"_I was so mad at you all day and now I can't even muster up annoyance. You make it so difficult to be angry at you. Did you know that?" I murmured as I clutched him close, my face buried in his chest._

"_No, but I will keep that in mind. I started the most amazing book today and I just had to rush home and finish it. That's why I'm home earlier than usual."_

_I laughed, squeezed his waist. "Do you teach at all during the day? It seems like you spend most of your time reading and not working."_

"_My classes are only an hour and fifteen minutes long and I have only three of them. Once I teach the lesson and assign work the students have time to work on their homework or get caught up on class work. That gives me a lot of time to read." _

_I pull away from him and walk into the family room, drop onto the nearest couch. "You can tell me about it while you rub my back. It's killing me."_

_I heard the closet door open and close, the screech of hangers moving on metal before I felt his weight depress the cushion beneath me as he sat down._

_As he gave me the best massage I had ever had, he told me the synopsis of the book in a soft tone, and I had to admit it sounded impressive. _

"_Clare, I was wondering. How do you feel about naming our baby Atticus, if they are a boy?"_

I laugh at the memory, and looking back I had actually had to give in and use Atticus as our youngest son's middle name.

Letting go of the pillow that I hold in a death grip, I roll out of bed and get dressed.

The dress is simple; a dove grey shift dress with a Peter Pan collar and short, capped sleeves. Its hem sits just above my knees, conservative through and through.

Standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I run a brush through my caramel coloured curls that are weaved with grey. At sixty eight years old, I think I am entitled to look my age so the admittance of getting older doesn't bother me and I haven't the energy to dye it.

My face is weathered with time and with life, but I think that a face without lines is like a life without memories; how do you know you've lived without them?

My eyes stay unchanged in their cerulean depths, though they don't see quite as well as they used to. Distances are blurrier, details are lost to the hands of time.

I think of his eyes; green as sage, framed by thick black lashes. They are eyes that do not miss a detail yet reveal nothing unless he wants them to. How I had wished for those eyes to catch mine when we first met! I was envious of anyone who caught his attention for even a moment.

Bringing myself back to the present, I apply a coat of soft pink lipstick to my puckered lips and leave the bedroom, heading down to the kitchen to use our home phone and call my eldest daughter.

"Hi Mama. When do you think you want to leave this morning?" Julia asks, her voice soothing in a way that is just like her father's. I can just make out the shouting voices of her twin boys, Jamie and Lucas, in the background and I laugh at their rambunctiousness.

I sigh, run a hand through my hair. "There's only one more thing that I need to grab from the attic and then I'll be ready to go. Say in about an hour?"

"Okay. Just call and I'll come get you. The rest of the family will meet us there."

I nod though I know she can't see me."I'll talk to you soon, sweetheart."

I hang up, make my way up the staircase to the attic. At my age, I have to hold onto the railing a little bit more than when I was young but I am independent enough.

The attic is musky and overly warm when I get up there as well as cluttered with overflowing boxes, but I know what I'm looking for and where to find it.

Kneeling on the dusty wood floor, I pull off the lid of a large leather suitcase. Inside is a myriad of pieces of my life; clothing that no longer fits, jewelry that is broken or outdated, old photos that have faded with time.

Finally, I find what I'm looking for. It is a butter smooth leather notebook with a cover the colour of toffee. On the cover are the years _1943-__-__1945_ in black pen. The writing is messy, rushed, but I recognize it immediately as my husband's.

Tears fill my eyes as I think back to those years, the struggles we faced and overcame.

I smooth my thumb over the letters, the digits on my arm catching my eye again.

_What a time that was,_ I think. _The best of times but the absolute worst as well; the time when I was still innocent, blissfully unaware that even the people you love can be crueler than your wildest imaginings. _

I open the journal, see pages upon pages of black scrawl that contain the beginnings of our story, the only story that I knew word for word.

I had never read the journal before, had never seen the story solely from his point of view. I had always been curiously tempted to indulge myself in his words, his phrases. Yet who I am to disrupt the fragile secrecy of his thoughts, the inner workings of his mind?

"Oh Eli, my love," I murmur, closing the journal gently, "you always were an enigma, weren't you? Forty seven years of marriage and you still are."

I lift my head from the book in my hands when I hear the rattling of the front door, the _click_ of high heels against tile.

"Mama? Wo bist du?" Julia calls out from down the stairs, using the tongue she had learned as a child when her father and I could speak little English, and it had been poor English at that.

"In the attic! I guess I just got...caught up." My voice trails off at the end of my sentence, fading to a whisper as I clutch the journal to my chest.

Julia makes her way up to the attic, and I can hear her before I see her.

Her feet come into my line of vision first; sensible black kitten-heel pumps that hide the circular scar that she received from dropping a sparkler on her foot when she was nine.

Her legs are next as she crouches to my level. They are almost coltish in their length.

She is wearing a black pantsuit that screams "corporate tycoon" but her black hair falls in soft curls to her elbows like something out of a fairytale.

I almost protest as she sits next to me on the grimy hardwood, wanting to save her suit from being dirty, but she would hear none of it anyways.

_Stubborn as a mule,_ I muse. _I guess she didn't get only her looks from us._

With eyes like a grass sea in summer and a mouth that could cut a man to the bone, Julia certainly isn't lacking qualities from either of her parents, and I have always been proud that she's never needed anyone to depend on but the force of her own will.

"You didn't call and I got worried. I thought you might be up here." Julia says, drawing her knees up to her chest. "So many memories. It's easy to get lost in them."

I nod, looking around the room. "I was looking for one in particular and it didn't take me long to find it. It's just reliving what happened that takes time."

Julia contemplates that for a moment, trying to find her words. She runs a hand through her hair, her wedding ring glinting in the muted sunlight. I always forget to ask her why she wears the ring when she left her husband eight months ago and is much happier without the toxicity of their relationship. I often wonder if it's to remind herself that she made it through, that she was her own life raft when life was dragging her under its waves.

"You know, you've never told me the whole story of how you and Papa winded up here in Toronto. Bits and pieces of course, and the occasional journal entry that Papa read to us when we were younger but never the whole thing. Why haven't you told us? Surely we're old enough to understand, Mama." Julia asks, placing her hand on my knee and squeezing it compassionately.

My eyes drift and I see them again; those five-digit codes that labelled us as cattle to be dealt with accordingly. Except this time it's inked into young skin with pride, two rows of five numbers that signify that humanity had prevailed against all odds.

I shake my head, laying the journal on her knees. "It's not that I thought you weren't ready. It was me who wasn't ready. I wasn't prepared to have you carry the burdens of my life. Your father and I came here to get away from the horrors of what we experienced and we didn't want that to influence your lives as you grew up. I wanted you kids to be who you were and have anything you wanted without our prejudices holding you back."

Julia moves closer to me while hugging the journal close, resting her head on my shoulder. "We've grown up now, Mama. Tell me. Please."

I turn my face into her hair, breathe in the soft floral scent, and gather up my courage.

Taking a deep breath, I begin.


	2. Chapter 1: The Lionheart

**A/N:** Hello everyone! Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long. I just wanted to pop in with a disclaimer that all of the characters, as everyone already knows, are not mine. Also, if any of the information in here is not correct please correct me in a PM or something as historical accuracy is important to me. I did come across situations such as the one mentioned in this fic in my research so I hope you don't think it's completely unrealistic. I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's much longer than the first and I worked really hard on it. Also, reviews are appreciated. Hint hint. Enjoy! x Nicole

The Courage of Living

Chapter One: The Lionheart

_Berlin, Germany: April 1943_

_If he doesn't stop that blasted tapping in the next ten seconds I will throw my spoon at his head,_ I seethed, shooting daggers at my stepbrother Jake who would not stop drumming his fingernails on the wooden kitchen table.

One year older than me, Jake was seventeen and in his last year of high school- well he would have been had he not dropped out to join the army- and I often wondered how he even made it that far. I had assumed that someone at some point would have gotten fed up with him and just kicked him out when he was still in the _Hitlerj__unge_, or Hitler Youth. It seemed that it must be the case that he made a better soldier than brother, though that certainly wouldn't have been difficult.

Since our families blended five years ago after Jake's father married my widowed mother, Jake had been nothing but an antisemitism-preaching, face-stuffing king of the household who was held above all others by our parents. Though no new concepts had really been introduced to our home-my father as well as Jake's were extreme Nazi supporters so it wasn't like detest for the Jewish religion was something unheard of to me before- Jake had brought new life to our family's support of the elimination of inferior races when he enlisted in the army six months ago. He and his father- my stepfather- idolized the _Führer_ as if he were a god among men and lived their lives by his words. This, combined with the lectures my real father gave me when I was a child, had made antisemitism the only culture I'd ever known.

Here the hatred of Jews lived and breathed; a vicious beast that everyone needed on their side or there were no guarantees of survival. Me? I found it hard to hate something I had never encountered before but I wasn't willing to sacrifice my relationship with my family or my life for them either.

Looking at Jake now he was the perfect example of the type of specimen the German people were working so hard to raise. Tall, strong and dirty-blond, Jake was everything the German populous was looking for and more. He had been in special training for the past year and a half to become an exemplary soldier and going from what my stepfather said at dinner every night it was working.

"_His teachers say he's dedicated like no other. He trains harder than the other boys in his class. He'll be an officer, they say."_ Father often said, clasping Jake's shoulder in his hand as he did so. That was the closest thing to a sign of affection that he ever gave either of us, and he rarely ever gave it to me. I didn't even bother trying to impress him anymore because everything I did, every achievement I had earned lived in the shadow of Jake's military future.

I hoped for Jake's success- he was my brother after all- but the resentment brewing in my belly made it hard to do so sometimes.

Even now at the breakfast table he out-shined me, his training uniform spotless and his hair perfectly combed while I sat only half-tamed in my poppy-red sundress and bed hair.

"Clare hurry up and eat your breakfast. You have to leave for school in twenty minutes and you haven't even combed your hair yet." My mother, Helen Martin, chastised me from the kitchen. At forty, she was ruthless in her housewife's regime. Cooking, cleaning; she did it all and without complaint. She held her household and her family to impossibly high standards that were never truly reached.

I ducked my head further into the cavity of my bowl of oatmeal, bringing my spoon up to my mouth. "Oh sure. When I get perfect on my essay about _Wuthering Heights_ I'm not even acknowledged but Heaven forbid my hair be messy or the _Führer_ himself will sleep uneasily." I muttered, my spoon scraping the bottom of the ceramic bowl noisily without actually picking any food up.

From across the table Jake rammed his army boot into my shin, the swift kick causing the glasses on the table to tinkle from being jostled.

I cried out in pain and frustration, my hand reaching underneath the table to rub my smarting leg."What was that for, _saukerl_?"

Jake shook his head swiftly, his hair being thrown out of place. A single flaxen strand lay across his forehead, defiant against the rest of his smoothed locks. "Don't you dare speak of the _Führer_ in such a manner. He is our saviour in a time of great darkness and he will lead us to glory. Even now he is in Africa fighting our enemies, destroying those who are not worthy of the life we lead."

I didn't tell him that I wasn't completely naive. I was aware of the German operations in Africa and I also knew that they were not going as well as planned. Africa was going to be liberated by the Allies and though I should feel shame for Germany's loss I was simply...neutral. Africa was a long ways away and I would never be affected by the motherland's loss of it. That made it hard for me to be torn apart by the upcoming defeat.

Instead of telling Jake that, however, I simply nodded vigorously. "You're right, brother. I should not speak so foolishly. I am grateful for what our _Führer _has done for us. Forgive me for saying otherwise."

Seeming satisfied with my apology Jake returned to his plate of eggs with vigour, the brass buttons on his uniform shining in the morning light with each of his movements.

With a curiously nauseating feeling in my stomach I left the table, my breakfast only half eaten. I suddenly didn't have an appetite for it anymore.

Fingering the gold cross around my neck, I went upstairs to my room and combed my hair, the red-gold curls shiny and bouncy afterwards, falling to just below my shoulders.

Sitting at my vanity I contemplated my appearance; eyes the blue of a shaded tropical waterway, skin an alabaster pale and a petite button nose planted right in the centre of my face. I supposed my appearance could be considered desirable but at that point in my life there were two definitions of desirable; desired by your peers or desired by Hitler. Those two were not always synonymous.

I saved my lips for last, as they were the hardest for me to study for any extended period of time. This wasn't because I thought they were unattractive. On the contrary, I thought they were quite serviceable. It's just that I had never had any use for them other than for modelling lipstick or eating.

That is...I'd never been kissed. Oh how I wanted to be kissed!

Being sixteen with virgin lips was mortifying for me, as all of my friends had already been kissed many times over and I was still waiting.

It wasn't as if there weren't boys that wanted to kiss me because there were. It was just that they were all so remarkably unremarkable that I didn't want to waste my first kiss on them. They were either too dull or too conceited or simply unattractive. I wanted my first kiss to be with a boy who held my curiosity, who challenged me and made me feel alive. I was not going to find that with any of the school boys that I was used to. I feared I would never find it at all.

So caught up was I in my own musings that I missed my mother's call saying that I had to leave for school and was forced to rush down the stairs with my leather knapsack over my shoulder.

Rushing down the street in my low-heeled shoes I swerved out of the way for bicyclists and cars, managing to get to school in record time.

I said a hasty "_Heil Hitler!_" to Frau Dawes before taking my seat at the front of the class, placing my books onto the wooden desk top.

Frau Dawes taught my grade twelve literature class and she was by far my favourite teacher. She was strict in her purist German values and unforgiving when it came to discipline but she knew her literature.

"Open to Act One Scene Three of your _Macbeth_ books." Frau Dawes ordered, her swing of blond hair falling in her face as she paced the front of the classroom.

I flipped the pages quickly, finding the scene she mentioned. None of it looked familiar though I had read it the night before.

"Someone tell me what the three witches meant when they said that Banquo would be 'lesser than Macbeth but greater', 'not so happy yet much happier' and that he 'shalt get kings, though thou be none'. Clare. Enlighten us." Frau Dawes instructed, tapping my desk with a ruler.

I swallowed slowly, my breath getting caught in my throat. I hated being put on the spot and I wasn't familiar enough with the material to be comfortable telling the class about it.

Saying nothing I stood, my knees shaking as I rose. I tried to come up with something even remotely logical, thinking about Banquo as a character as well as Macbeth.

Gulping, I answered her. "I think the first witch meant that Banquo would be less of a man in regards to titles but he would be more rich in nobility of character than Macbeth. The second witch probably meant that he would be less happy because he would never be king but he will never lose himself or what he has either."

Frau Dawes raised an eyebrow. "And the third witch?"

That was where I faltered. "I'm not sure, Frau Dawes."

"Did you not read the Act like I assigned for homework?"

I nodded my head as if I were a marionette on strings. "I did read it but some of the passages were difficult for me to understand. I'm sorry."

Frau Dawes shook her head. "Pity. Perhaps detention after school will help you understand it better and be better prepared tomorrow."

Panicking, I flushed with embarrassment and sat back down in mortification. "Please Frau Dawes! I've never gotten a detention before in my life!"

"Then it will be a good learning experience for you." With that statement the class went absolutely silent.

Suddenly there was a rustle at the back of the class, the sound of water being sloshed in a bucket. "Wait a minute. That's not fair! You can't punish her for not understanding something that was written four hundred years ago. She's not perfect. What the third witch meant was that Banquo himself would not be king but he would father a line of kings. In this case they mean his son Fleance who is saved during the battle at the end of the play. Fleance later heirs a line of kings that rule Scotland for decades."

At the sound of a rough male voice I whipped my head around to see a boy that I didn't recognize, as I certainly would have remembered him had I seen him before.

He was beautiful in a way that new places were beautiful; he was foreign and mysterious and a little bit frightening for his anonymity.

The unnamed boy who had stood up for me was tall in courage but not in stature. I imagined that he was about as tall as I was though his aggressive stance made him seem bigger.

He stood with his fist clenched around a tattered rag, dust on the knees of his black trousers and one of his suspenders falling off his shoulders. His white collarless shirt was covered in dirt. A bright yellow star was stitched onto the fabric over his heart, the word "_Jude_" sewn in black script across the centre.

There was grime on his sweat-streaked face and murky water dripping onto his boots yet I had never seen a man so confident, so defiant.

His hair was black as pitch, shiny in the overhead lighting though the rest of him was so filthy. It curled across his forehead, over his eyes. I was instantly curious to see what colour they were, as if they were shrouded just to torture me.

"What did I tell you about speaking in my class, you Jewish filth?! You're lucky I don't have you killed for that remark. What are you to a girl such as her? Nothing. That's what you are. You don't speak to her or anyone else in this room. Robert and Stan, take this trash outside and make it be subservient. Then send him back to finish his cleaning. That's all he is good for." Frau Dawes thundered, whipping her ruler at the boy in the back of the room. It hit the back wall with a _crack_, not making contact with the stranger at all, and I felt relief loosen the knot in my stomach.

_It._ She had called him an _it_, as if he were not human at all. Anger stirred in my belly, something that had never occurred before when speaking of the Jewish population. I didn't like how she spoke of him as if he were an animal and therefore less human than anyone else in the room.

The two largest and stupidest boys in the class took the Jewish boy by the scruff of his neck, dragging him out the door and into the school yard, shutting the door swiftly behind them.

An hour later I could still hear the pounding of flesh against flesh. The entire class could hear it and no one said a word. In fact, some of them were laughing.

_They're going to kill him,_ I thought,_ if they keep it up for much longer._

"Stupid Jew. Doesn't know his place, I guess." Someone murmured from the back of the room.

"_Dummkopf_." Another spat.

I wanted to cry out to Frau Dawes, demand that she make them stop hurting the boy who had stood up for me.

Yet I said nothing, because who was I to disrupt the German machine for a single Jew? He was as meaningless in the grand scheme of things as I was. I felt sorry for him but I wasn't going to risk my record for him.

_Isn't that what he just did for you, though?_ A small voice in the back of my mind asked. _Didn't he just put his neck on the line to keep you from getting detention? _

The little voice was right. With the commotion of the boy being roughed up my detention was forgotten. I was grateful to the stranger for that and that should have been all but suddenly it wasn't anymore.

I rubbed my eyes with my knuckles, a headache building up behind them. Why was I even feeling sympathy for a boy whom I didn't know at all, someone that was considered inferior by nearly the entire German people? I was Catholic and a good girl. Why did I need to say anything, feel anything that was different from anyone else in this room?

When I finally began to focus on my assigned work the door to the classroom opened slowly, timidly.

The Jewish boy was back.

He was so quiet that no one would have taken notice of him had he been a normal student. However, because he was a Jew who had just returned from what was presumably a session of bone-breaking, everyone stared. They took stock of his injuries like vultures watching their prey. I was no different.

He walked with a slight limp, as if he had been kicked in the leg or had fallen the wrong way, but he was still swift in trip to the back of the classroom.

As he moved toward my desk I took further notice of his condition and I gasped in shocked at what I saw.

His shirt was ripped at the shoulder revealing a glimpse of pale, unmarred skin. His knuckles trailed blood across the backs of his hands and down his forearms as he ran a hand through his hair, the bright red liquid pooling into the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt.

His bottom lip was split open, his cupid's bow mouth weeping blood. He touched his tongue to the wound as he walked, pale pink compared to the bloodied surface of his skin.

I noticed his eye last, what must be a terribly painful blue and purple bruise blossoming across the pale skin of his eyelid and cheekbone. His right eye was so swollen he could barely open it but the left was untouched.

I had to catch myself when I began to think that I wanted him to look at me instead of keeping his eyes trained on the floor, but my curiosity ran too deep to be stopped. I badly wanted to see his eyes more clearly. What a trivial thing that was, the colour of someone's eyes, but I needed to know for me to have any peace of mind.

As if reading my mind his eyes lifted, catching my gaze instantly. God, they were devastating.

Green. His eyes were the green of frosted grass; mellow and soft in colour yet bright and full of life, vibrant.

They were framed with lashes dark as pitch and so long that they cast shadows on his cheekbones. It was a startling contrast to the light colour of his eyes and made it so much harder to look away.

As he passed my desk he smirked at me, something I never would have expected. It was a devilish smirk, a cocky and seductive half-smile that left me breathless. The careless gesture brought to mind deeds done in the dark and secrets left untold, secrets that I badly wanted to discover.

At the back of the classroom he resumed his position on the floor, picking up the rag and dipping it into the bucket as if nothing had happened. He wrung the excess water from the cloth and dragged it across the floor, his forearms flexing enticingly as he did so.

Everyone watched the boy as if he were a new species, partly because they probably had imagined he wouldn't come back alive. No Jew came out of a fight with two highly trained Nazi boys as seemingly alright as this teenage boy was, no matter how well trained or fit they were. It just didn't happen. They either submitted to their tormentors or they died. That was how things worked.

This Jew, everyone was realizing, was different. He hadn't submitted and he came back merely bruised, receiving not even a broken bone during the scuffle.

To further prove the point the two boys who attacked the unknown boy entered the room, their faces filled with bruises and blood flowing from their noses. Their faces were red with either embarrassment or fury from having been bested by a Jew. They trudged back to their seats slowly, their walks the strides of men defeated.

I couldn't help but look back at my saviour who continued to scrub the floors without a word of protest, and to my astonishment he was still smirking.

I spent the rest of my day thinking about that grin, making it very hard to concentrate on anything else.

When the final bell rang I collected my things and headed out into the cool April day, glad to be breathing fresh air after a day inside. It was bright outside, not a speck of cloud on the horizon as far as the eye could see.

It was darker, more dreary on the ground. Reminders of the war were everywhere; Nazi propaganda posters in shop windows that insisted that they needed you to win the war for the motherland, violently red flags draped over brick walls, broken glass from the smashed windows of Jewish shops scattered over cobblestone streets, and enough swastikas stitched into clothing to cover the city in a sea of onyx and blood. Our great city, Berlin, was being destroyed piece by piece, person by person and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. Our sense of self-preservation only helped so much and we could only fight against what we could get our hands on. What chances did we the citizens have against an army, an air raid? None. We were sitting ducks and everyone knew it, so Berlin was being torn apart and we stayed still to watch it crumble.

I was walking down the street on the way back home when I heard someone call my name. Turning, I noticed Drew Torres making his way toward me at a fast pace, and I couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed that it wasn't a certain green-eyed, black-haired stranger.

I smiled as Drew approached, more for decorum than anything else. "Hello, Drew. What's up?"

He looked really nervous as he walked beside me, his smile hesitant and his blue eyes warm. "I was just wondering if you were interested in going to see a movie with me or something."

I stopped in my tracks, turning to face him in surprise.

Drew was everything I was supposed to want, everything my family expected me to want. With sky blue eyes, carefully styled brown hair and an athletic build he was an ideal specimen. He liked to play football and was smart enough to get by which made him popular with the ladies at school. I had heard of his reputation and I heard no complaints about his skills.

I supposed I should be flattered that he would even be bothered to ask out a girl like me, and in a way I was. I was a nobody and he was a somebody. Everyone knew who Drew was or at least knew of him, whereas I was lucky to have the few friends that I did have.

As Drew went on to suggest a few of the movies that we could possibly go see, movement over his shoulder caught my eye. It was that mysterious boy with the haunting eyes and the sly smirk. He was walking up the sidewalk the same way that I usually walked home, something he had never done before.

_Has he really never gone that way before?_ That same small voice in my head wondered. _Or have you just never noticed him?_

I pondered that question for a moment, guilt stirring in my gut like a slick, greasy rag that kept being wrung out. I owed him an apology. I knew that. I also needed to thank him for what he did, something that no one else would have been bothered with. He deserved that much, Jew or not. Human kindness was human kindness.

Looking back at Drew, as he was obviously expecting an answer, I saw in him a future for myself that I had been told I wanted my entire life; marriage after high school, thirty years being a housewife with three kids and a husband that brought home the paychecks. I would iron his shirts and wash his clothes while he went out into the real world and did something beneficial to many. I would be happy for a while but not fulfilled.

My eyes trailed again to the brave Jewish boy's retreating back, at the sturdy slope of his shoulders as he put one foot forward then the other as if he had nothing to lose, nothing to risk by doing just what he pleased.

I envied that. I wanted to be able to have that kind of freedom, that kind of recklessness and force of will. However, I had standards that I was expected to meet. I was supposed to be an antisemitic who was willing to let men fight her battles for her and sit back as if the entire situation didn't make her sick.

It was while I looked into Drew's baby blues that I realized I couldn't do that anymore. I couldn't live my life only half satisfied with what it had given me. I needed to be an active participant in my life and not continue to watch it happen from the sidelines, and the first step to doing that was turning this paper boy down.

"Drew," I said softly, "you are very sweet for asking me out and I appreciate the offer. Honestly, I do. I just...I'm not interested."

Drew raised his eyebrows as if he were unaccustomed to being turned down by anyone, let alone me. "We don't have to go to a movie if you don't want to. We could-" I cut him off mid sentence by shaking my head sadly, raising a hand to his shoulder and squeezing it.

"I'm sorry. You'll find someone else, someone whose company you'll appreciate much more than mine." My voice was calm, almost sympathetic, but there was really only one thing on my mind and it wasn't Drew's feelings.

I didn't stay to hear whatever he had to say next and I knew that I would feel bad about that later, but at that moment I had larger fish to fry.

Turning away from Drew I hurried up the street in hot pursuit, my heels getting caught in the cracks between the rectangular stones and the skirt of my red dress fluttering in the breeze. My curls were blown around quite a bit in the wind and the chill in the air brought goosebumps to the skin on my bare arms but I had never felt more alive than at that moment. I had never felt more vital than while I looked for the person who had instigated my internal revolution. The saviour of my perfect record had made me brave. He had changed me so much and I didn't even know his name. Was that something that spoke volumes of his character or mine?

As I went further down the street I waved to familiar shopkeepers and called a greeting to those whom I knew that lived on the street, but it was with only half of my attention that I did so. I kept my eyes peeled for a mop of black hair and a white shirt coloured beige with dust, black suspenders and pants to match.

It was while I was gazing in a shop window at a dress that interested me that I saw him scrunched against a wall in the shade, his nose in a book.

My attention was diverted immediately and I quickly made my way to his side.

He said nothing as I approached, simply watched me with those alert green eyes. He studied me as if he could spend all day doing it and never get bored, as if there were nothing he would rather do than be in my presence saying nothing. There was a quiet serenity to that, and to him as well. It left me both at ease and oddly unsettled, as if everything were slightly off balance but in the best way.

His head tilted slightly as I came even closer, close enough that I could see the creases in the book's spine from being read dozens of times. It was a look that took in everything but gave away nothing. I had no doubt this boy paid apt attention to everything going on around him without having to participate. He was an observer and at that moment I was his subject.

"What are you reading?" I asked quietly, having lost my courage now that I was face to face with the boy who had tormented my mind all afternoon.

He held the book out to me, his fingers long and pale; an artist's fingers. They were smudged with what I guessed was black ink, the ink smearing on the book's cover. It was hardcover but had no dust jacket so I was left with only the title; _A Farewell to Arms._

"Is it any good?" My question was innocent enough but he smirked as if it were filled with innuendo. _Maybe that was the way he smiled all the time._ Whatever the reason was, my pulse raced.

"Why don't you find out for yourself? Take it." His voice was softer now that he wasn't yelling, a warm melody that soothed the ears.

I clutched the book with both hands, clinging to it tightly. "Are you sure?"

He laughed and it was so vivacious, so infectious that I couldn't help chuckling too. "Clare, it's a book not a kidney. I'll survive."

"Thank you." I whispered, my eyes hesitantly meeting his again. His gaze was soft now, his eyes cool as rain water. "Not just for the book but for everything. I would never have let you stand up for me like that if I had known you would get hurt because of it. I'm really sorry about your eye and your lip. Does it hurt terribly?"

The boy shrugged, his shoulders shrinking in on themselves. It was a helpless gesture, not one of nonchalance. It made him look smaller, younger, helpless. "They would have come after me anyway. I'd rather get beat up and have it be for a good reason than simply because I'm Jewish like every other time they've roughed me up. I was tired of letting Frau Dawes bully her students so when she went after you with no cause I figured the timing couldn't get much better. Don't make a big deal about it. It doesn't hurt too bad, especially not enough to warrant your sympathy. Besides, I think it makes me look kind of like a badass. I should be thanking you."

Instead of laughing like he might have expected I shook my head insistently. "But I have to make a big deal about it. No one else would have done that for me, especially you who had no reason to. I've never done anything but be cruel to you. That's all any of us have ever done and you don't deserve any of it." I mumbled, embarrassed.

He stood to look into my face, his eyes never leaving mine, and I was pleased to note that I was correct about thinking that he wasn't much taller than me. That meant that there was enough room inside of me to foster my own version of his courage, his strength. I was not a vessel completely full of cynicism and hate yet. "Clare. You can't blame yourself for every bad thing that an antisemitic does. You can only control your own actions and hope they're the right ones. That's all any of us can do."

Seeing the honesty in his eyes, I wondered how someone who had been dealt all the wrong cards could be so forgiving to the people who had wronged him when, if I were in the same position, I would have had no forgiveness left for anyone. Maybe I was selfish. Maybe he was idealistic. Whatever the reason, I craved his light more than the safety of my darkness.

"Who are you?" I whispered airily, totally absorbed by this person who was everything I wasn't.

He simply smiled, a real smile that revealed a miniscule gap between his two front teeth. It was enough to make my breath hitch.

_He really is handsome with his bow mouth and green eyes,_ I though dizzily, _even with the shiner and the dried blood._

While I had been trying to find my tongue he had moved away, slipping into the shadows towards the back of the store he had been leaning against to read, the alley leading to the street parallel to the one I stood on.

"Wait!" I called out. "I don't even know your name!"

The enigmatic boy turned for a moment, pointed with a single finger towards the book in my hands and left without another word, taking his secrets with him.

Confused, I flipped the front cover of the book open and in the right hand corner were a handful words written in loopy black scrawl: _Property of __Elijah Goldsworthy._

_Finally, _I thought,_ a name to the face of the man I had only been introduced to today but had managed to turn my entire world upside down._

"Elijah Goldsworthy." I tried the name out, liked the way it felt moving over my tongue. It was a Jewish name most definitely, but it flowed smoothly from my lips into the world around me. It shouldn't have, I knew, yet I couldn't help but feel that there was more promise of survival in those two words than in anything I could have read from _Mein__Kampf _ or other assorted Nazi propaganda pamphlets.

Elijah Goldsworthy had sparked my curiosity, my compassion, and I wanted to see where it led. I would have to be careful, I recognized, but I also knew that I would rather risk the dangers of freedom than live a life in chains for the sake of my so called safety.

Elijah Goldsworthy wasn't safe.

He was the epitome of everything that I was supposed to hate and I couldn't bring myself to do it anymore. Hate took so much of my energy and for Elijah Goldsworthy I could not make the effort.

I knew that if I didn't stop myself I could end up falling into a friendship with the boy or, what was even more frightening, a relationship. I smiled when I thought no one would see me, hugging the book to my heart, not even remotely opposed to the idea.


End file.
